


The Corrupting

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corruption went both ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Corrupting

Innocent corruption was an impossible contrary, manifested only in the form of Fantine.  She was so pitifully naive, so pure, so sincere, but Favourite knew she was wild.  Fantine had few reservations, and infantile though open-hearted behaviour was, it rendered her no less brilliant.   She was as loud as she was quiet, taking turns in her remarks, saying enough to make a point but not enough to dirty her hands.  And that was Fantine: plucking at the strings of corruption, bathing in the milk of vice, then emerging unscathed from that hovel of sin as a dove might have flown from the loins of the Virgin fucking Mary.

Fantine was divine and Favourite sought to devour her.   If Fantine was a star, luminous against the forgettable platform that was the black wash of night, then Favourite was the sky.  She was the empty board behind the night star, holding no desire but to engulf that bright light, to absorb it, take it whole, and possess it always.  It would protect Fantine, in a way.   In succumbing to Favourite’s wiles, she would be saved from the corruption of the world beyond.   That was the reward of the sky, winning the privilege to behold the star in its glory when the rest of the world saw it fade away.

And it was a grave deed.   There would be responsibility by embarking on such an endeavour.  It was no easy task to lay Fantine low in this shadowland of carnality; it had to be _good_.   Verily, if Favourite were to fulfill her desires, then it was not enough to stain the dove’s wings, but to will those tainted feathers spread wider than ever before as it flew above the heads of mortals.  A corruption so bad, it was good. 

Fantine was wholly oblivious.  In the end, her obtuse regard saved her.  Perhaps if she was aware of Favourite’s musings then she would have stumbled or at least fought them off.  But she did neither, for she was unaware of their existence altogether. 

 Favourite sat across her now, the four girls and their lovers all huddled in the back room of a tavern inn, a rich supper splayed out before them.    They all ate and spoke merrily, some inebriated more than others.   Fantine looked like child in their company, her blonde hair draped about her like a gold-threaded shawl, her eyes so wide and loving as she turned her gaze about the room.   Candlelight flickered and cast unforgiving shadows on every face, but there was no bad angle to that sweet young visage.   Her lips were pink, a little wet, probably tasting faintly of wine.   She had drunk at least a little for her cheeks were flushed.   So rosy and pleasant.   She was cradled in Tholomyès’ thoughtless arms, and she looked over at Dahlia, smiling fondly at whatever remark the other girl made.

She looked so _happy_.   So _in love_ with the world.  That would be the downfall of that wild, innocent, unholy specimen:  she thought everyone was like her, so fucking _good_ underneath it all.   

If Favourite took her hand right now, Fantine would not even question it.   It would be so easy.  All required of Favourite would be the simple action to _move_ , to circle their quaint table, to lean in where Tholomyès hooked his arm about Fantine’s shoulders.   He wasn’t even looking at her, rather speaking loudly and nonsensically with the boys.   It would be easy to separate that faint embrace, to touch her lips to Fantine’s ear under the guise of a whisper, to murmur an innocent nothing and hold out her hand.  

And Fantine would take it.  Blindly, dumbly.   She would slip her delicate little hand into Favourite’s weathered palm, would think nothing of Favourite hooking their fingers together.   She would be curious, perhaps, but no less wary for it.  Favourite would turn away, smirk to herself, swish her skirts, but never let go of Fantine’s hand. 

“Ho, now!”  Tholomyès might have called, attention garnered by the screech of Fantine’s chair against the floorboards, her place at his side forgotten as she rose with Favourite.   “Retiring at the hour!  Has the sun even gone?”

“Retiring but a moment,” Favourite would declare.  Her eyes would sparkle, a knowing glint, one Tholomyès was too drunk to see and which Fantine was too naive to realize.   She would glance at Fantine then, nod her head to the door.  “Come now,” she would say, voice light, grasp tender, tugging Fantine along.   Fantine would shuffle behind, cheeks still pink, fingers still laced tight in Favourite’s hold.

“Where are we going?”  Fantine would ask, and she would sound like a child snooping in the neighbour’s garden, about to steal an apple before she ran off giggling in the sunset.   It would be as menially thrilling as all that.

“I want to teach you a game,” Favourite would reply, leading Fantine out the door.  There was a corridor before them, at the end of which was the main tavern foyer.   But Favourite would lead Fantine up the stairs on the right, to the second floor of the inn where she would find an unlocked room and usher Fantine inside.   The evening sun would bleed in through the windows, just enough for them to find their bearings.   Favourite would light a lamp and turn the curtain.   Fantine would loiter by the door, perhaps rub her fingers where Favourite had held them. 

“Will the others involve themselves in this game?”  Fantine would ask, innocent as ever, totally unaware.  

Just as she was now, Favourite mused.  Her own cheeks began to colour but no one paid mind in the midst of common madness.   Tholomyès still drank, Fantine still smiled, the others still talked and laughed.  Favourite strummed her fingers across the table, with her free hand reaching for her drink and sipping.   The wine slid warmly down her throat, filling her chest as she mused some more, encouraged in verifying how pitifully easy it all would be.  

Indeed: Favourite would approach Fantine, would clasp the handle of the door and pull it closed. 

“No others,” she would say.   “It’s a game for two.”

Fantine’s eyebrows would lift in slight, her lips pursing as she considered.  

“Oh,” she would say, but would be daring behind her sensibilities.   “What sort of game then?”   Daring, yes, but still innocent.   She regarded Favourite fondly, felt like she had been invited to some wonderful moment, engaged in some innocent fun.  

And Favourite would smile, perhaps it would almost be a leer, not that Fantine could tell the difference.  And she would take Fantine by the shoulders and turn her around so she faced the door, would run her hand through those golden tresses before lovingly gathering every last lock to drape it forward over Fantine’s shoulder. 

“A fun game,” she would answer at last.  Fantine would help gather her hair, would keep it over her shoulder, still unsure but trusting anyway.   She would run her pretty little fingers through her hair, would catch them on little curls and twist them about to be free.   She would continue this mindless action until a little gasp sounded in her throat.   Her hair would be forgotten and she would begin to turn, looking at Favourite over her shoulder as Favourite began to unweave the laces of her dress.  

“What are you doing?” she would ask, those wide eyes growing ever wider.   Favourite would hush her, would lean in a bit so their foreheads almost touched, would lay a finger on Fantine’s lips and smile again.

“Don’t worry,” she would whisper, and move her finger from Fantine’s lips to lay a hand on her shoulder.  “You’ll like my game.  I promise.”   And Fantine would worry her bottom lip, that pliant bit of pink flesh disappearing into her mouth, kneaded under the pristine pearls that were her teeth, and Favourite would swallow and try to hide it.   “Oh please,” she would say instead of breaking right then, looking Fantine in the eye.   Batting her own eyelashes, Favourite would slide her body just that bit closer, slipping both hands to Fantine’s upper arms and squeezing lightly.  “You do trust me, don’t you?”   And the tender innocence in which she would ask that would convince Fantine.   So Fantine would nod, and instill blind faith again.

“I do, yes.”

“Good,” Favourite would say, and return to the laces of the gown.   “Then stand still.”  

Fantine would be mildly hesitant when the gown came apart, as the top began to slip and reveal her under-things.   A stay and chemise – the stay would be plain, more ivory than white, the chemise more so with age.    Favourite’s reassuring fingers would whisk away her hesitancy.   Her breath may have shuddered, but Fantine would let the dress fall, pooling at her ankles.   Her chemise would reach her knees, and she would not wear stockings, only those worn little shoes.   She would wiggle her toes inside them, swallowing as Favourite turned her around again.  

“Step out of it now.  Good girl,” Favourite would say, guiding Fantine away from the puddle of fabric.  Fantine would take her hand when Favourite offered, though perhaps not as blindly as before.  Already, the wheels in her mind which never before had cause to turn would be begin to spin, begin to consider something new was afoot, though it would not have the power to deduce what.  

Favourite would keep Fantine between herself and the wall, would slide her fingers under Fantine’s chin and tip her head up.   Favourite was only a little bit taller.  It would place those lips in perfect proximity for a kiss, but Favourite would practice patience a little bit longer.   Her gaze would wander unceremoniously, her hands in the crook of Fantine’s elbows.  Fantine’s own fingers would be at Favourite’s elbows, uncertain.   Just as she did now, Favourite would feel the strain in her belly turn liquid, begin to gather as heat between her legs as her eyes fell down over that perfect pale throat.   Perhaps she would trace her fingers there, consider what flesh was still untouched, perhaps morbidly consider how easy it would be to throttle that pretty little throat, that it was so close.  But of course she would not.  She would trace her fingers down to the top of the chemise, sticking out in threads above the stay which now strained.   Fantine would be breathing heavier, chest rising in quicker increments.   Favourite would smile at that, would look Fantine in the eye once more, this time meeting an aware gaze.   But now it was past hesitancy; it was curious still, perhaps a little afraid, but willing itself be taught the full lesson.    She was drowning in wild innocence and Favourite would stir the waters. 

“Are you sure about this game?” would be a remark from Fantine, perhaps surprising Favourite, but only a little.   

And Favourite would lean in, smile wide. 

“Of course,” she would say, and that would be that.  Fantine would lurch forward, anticipating a kiss like the girl she was.  Doubtlessly any engagement she had went thus: a kiss and then she was on her back without a second touch or glance.   Favourite would remind her of the woman she was, would hook up the material about her legs before dropping to her knees before Fantine.   And Fantine would gasp again, fall back only to find the wall right there, her fingers against it and lost.  Favourite would lay a kiss on the inside of her knee, revelling at last in the taste of that skin she so long admired.  She would lift higher on her knees and kiss again, hotly against the inside of Fantine’s thigh.  Fantine would breathe audibly, not a gasp unheard, every breath a little bit shaky.  Her legs would quiver a bit, but she was strong beneath it all, and when Favourite looked up at her she would be staring ahead with her mind’s eye here, her chest rising and falling.  Maybe her eyes would fall closed as Favourite nudged her legs apart a little more, as she wedged herself between them and pushed the chemise up until it revealed that nest of blonde curls.   She would not even dally with a tease or a taunt, but would serve to shock Fantine immediately, would lick clean into her, would probe and taste like it was all she would ever taste again in her life.

And it was then Favourite could make no assumptions.  She watched Fantine now and breathed harder while studying that oblivious little fool.   

Favourite could imagine many things.  She could imagine looking up at Fantine, watching her face flicker with expression after expression as Favourite angled her hips in just the right way, as she found just the right spot, as she rolled and pressed and licked and sucked and Fantine would slide her hands over herself, chest heaving, fingers clawing at her own stay and her other hand sliding into Favourite’s hair.   Her legs would weaken, perhaps.   She would rest her weight on the wall as she panted and tipped her head back, as she hitched her hips just a certain way and pressed down, maybe mewling or murmuring like a woman desperately praying.   

Or maybe she would immediately grind herself down against Favourite.  Maybe she would be loud and unhinged, would grasp Favourite’s hair and tug, would speak and beg and demand and moan with all the theatrics of a common strumpet.   And maybe Favourite would like that even more.  She would be no more surprised with that than anything else, and she would work faster and slide her hands up that soft flesh, would press her fingers where she might and use her tongue else wise, moaning just as well until Fantine came apart above her. 

Either way, panting and all but boneless, Fantine would slide down the wall.   Her eyes would close if they were not already, her chest still heaving, her cheeks flushed.   And Favourite would lean in anyway, would turn Fantine’s face towards her and claim a kiss, make her taste herself and not stop until she had ripped a moan from the back of her throat just from a kiss.   She would keep their bodies close, would slide her hands behind Fantine and begin unweaving her stay.  There would be no protest, the material would part, and before long she would have every last material hindrance removed, and that body would be hers to stake claim. 

Perhaps she would move them to the bed.  Perhaps Fantine would request it, perhaps _demand_ it.    Favourite could not suppose, not looking at Fantine now.    But back in the unfolding story she could see it either way.   She would be divested of her own clothes soon enough, would have Fantine on her back and their hips close as she dipped to suckle her neck, pressing wet kisses lower and sliding down, fondling those breasts and taking a nipple between her fingers, between her lips, making Fantine squirm and squeak happily.  She would dip her hand between them and make Fantine come all over again.   She would then take that delicate hand, which was by now was yearning, and would guide it between her own legs.  Fantine would merrily take action, would follow instruction and soon Favourite would be panting and rubbing against her fingers, probably clutching that golden cascade of hair, heart swelling with pride at a thorough corruption...

Zéphine bumped her, thoughtlessly and without apology, so once more Favourite's fantasy was distracted.   Her gaze had not left Fantine.  Not even Zéphine’s intrusion broke it.   Favourite stared a moment longer, unaware she still held her drink, clutching it so tight her knuckles whitened.   Instead of releasing it, she lifted it, taking another sip and lowering her gaze from Fantine at last.  After swallowing and returning her drink, she exhaled, a little shakier than usual.

When she looked up again she met Fantine’s gaze.  Fantine did not hold contact for long but dropped her eyes towards Tholomyès in a moment.   Favourite’s heart beat unevenly regardless, her blood already pulsating hotly.  Fantine glanced at her once more, seeming to use the action of reaching for her drink as an excuse to do so.   Her gaze did not return after that, but Favourite watched her sip politely, watched her lower her drink, watched her tongue sweep over her bottom lip.   Favourite coughed to hide whatever stutter was in her breath.   

And Fantine was unaware.

And in regarding the irony of it all, Favourite could have thrown back her head and laughed.  For Fantine turned back to her lover, returned to gazing lovingly over the room, returned to wild innocence and sparkling in the night, her light continuing to eclipse Favourite’s hours.   And that was the truth of it all, wasn’t it?   For Favourite could sit and consider all manner of corruption, and yet it was Fantine who was victorious in this pursuit.  Favourite had no need to fantasize of any other engagement before.   She knew her ways and wiles well by now, yet she was reduced to this state when it came to thought of Fantine.   Truly, Fantine, the unholy saint, rendered Favourite thus: to a state of sitting in place, watching her in earnest, and considering all manner of decadence in the meanwhile.   Whether she intended it or not, it was so.    

Indeed, then.

Favourite had been thoroughly corrupted. 

 


End file.
